Sweet Child Of Mine
by sulietsexual
Summary: Series of drabbles based on an AU in which Angel got to raise Connor. A little angst, a little fluff. Somewhat spoilery if you haven't watched all of AtS. To be updated soon.
1. Hockey

Under the blinding lights, with the sharp smell of ice in the air, Connor raised his eyes to the bleachers and found his father, awkwardly perched on the plastic chair, hands twisted anxiously in his lap. Beside him sat Uncle Gunn, looking much more at ease, a homemade banner waving in his hands, the letters sprinkled with pink glitter. A reminder that Aunt Fred was thinking of him.

Connor rushed forward with his teammates, skating out onto the ice, hockey stick grasped in his hands. As he felt his father's eyes on him, he broke away from his friends to quickly glide across the ice with a touch too much speed, balancing with a precision even his father could not have displayed, indulging in the skills he had been naturally graced with.

Connor grinned in delight, yet even from across the white expanse of ice, his ears picked up the small, soft sound of his father's throat clearing and, lifting his head, he saw the stern yet amused smile his father wore whenever his son got a little too carried away with his abilities.

Connor shrugged sheepishly, before executing a sharp, clean turn and skating back towards his teammates, his father's chuckles ringing in his ears.


	2. Lullaby

When his friends found the song on his iPod, Connor pretended it was a joke, uploaded by one of his aunts. He, of course, had no knowledge of such a song being in his collection, and he breathed a sigh of relief when his friends laughed and turned to other topics.

Because he could never tell his friends why he always kept the song in his music library. Why it slowed his heart rate and helped him breathe. Why, when he was younger and woke in the middle of the night, terrified of which cult or demon would try to kidnap him next, the lyrics would lull him back to sleep, the melody calming his mind, allowing his throat to open and breathe again.

He could never tell his friends of the horror and the violence in his world, and why he needed the song to keep his feet on the ground. He could never tell his friends of the evil which surrounded his family, and why the song made him feel safe and protected from it all, why it soothed and comforted him.

He could never tell his friends how he would wake screaming from the nightmares which plagued his childhood, to the sound of his father singing Mandy, using the song to help send him away to softer, kinder dreams.


	3. Protected

Uncle Wes called it the face of the demon within. Uncle Gunn always looked slightly uncomfortable when it appeared. Aunt Cordy never seemed to care either way.

But to Connor, his father's true face was the one he trusted above all else.

When the fangs came out and the brow transformed, when his father's face turned, Connor knew he was safe. This was the face which came out when danger appeared, when cults came to kidnap him, when demons attacked the hotel, when vampires stalked them through dark alleys. This was the face which sung him to sleep, which calmed his fears, which steadied his pulse.

It was the face feared by everyone. The face which revealed the true demon, the face which reminded those they lived with that their leader struggled with dual identities, the face which invoked terror and panic.

But to Connor, the face meant he was protected above all else.


	4. Towards Him

Eight months, two weeks, four days and three hours after Darla dusted herself to birth their son, Connor unsteadily teetered on two feet, before charging across the room to the waiting arms of his father.

Angel could still recall the excited gurgling of his young son, his tiny feet pattering across the floor, arms outstretched as he barrelled across the linoleum of the Hyperion.

Everyone was there to watch the tiny human move towards his father, Fred running to grab the camera, Gunn cheering from the sidelines, while Wes and Cordelia watched on, bickering even at a time like this. Angel only had eyes for Connor.

He son took his final, faltering steps, and launched into his father's arms. Angel swept him up and pressed his son close to his chest, hoping that Connor's first steps away from him were still a long way off.


	5. Parent-Teacher Conference

Angel watched his small son barrel across the floor of the classroom, energetically jumping around with his tiny friends. Angel shifted uncomfortably, feeling overgrown and out-of-place wedged into a small, sticky plastic chair. The hot lights of the classroom bore down on him. A middle-aged woman to his right kept trying to catch his eye, her smile suggestive. Angel smiled awkwardly, hoping he wouldn't be forced in engage in any unnecessary small-talk.

"Mr Angel?"

Angel snapped back to attention, concentrating on the blandly pretty young teacher in front of him. She smiled nervously and Angel wondered if Cordelia was right, and he should have opted for a white sweater instead of his usual all-black. Something about being less intimidating.

"Mr Angel, your son is showing wonderful work. He's very bright for his age, really, quite intelligent. He has picked up basic reading, writing and math with ease."

Angel beamed, a feeling of pride swelling up inside of him. He smiled across the room at his son, but then the young teacher lowered her eyes and cleared her throat.

"There's just one thing we thought we should mention."

The nervous feeling returned, and Angel leaned forward in his chair, preparing for the worst.

"It's just … your son lifted another child over his head in Gym class."

Angel felt a flood of relief and amusement wash over him, and he relaxed back in the chair, trying to suppress a chuckle, and reminded himself to have a talk with his son about the proper way to interact with other children.


	6. Ring Bearer

His tiny son stood stiffly by Gunn, his little tuxedo pressed and brand new, face beaming with excitement. The wedding was small, intimate, close friends and very few family members. Fred looked radiant as she came down the stairs of the Hyperion and out into the sunshiny courtyard. Angel lurked in the shade and watched the ceremony unfold.

The celebrant called for the rings and little Connor excitedly fumbled in his pocket, moving too quickly in his haste. The rings clattered to the floor, the metallic _ding_ echoing through the courtyard. Connor's face crumpled.

Before the tears could start, Gunn scooped up the rings and handed them back to Connor, giving him a smile and a quick "It's alright, Champ." Connor was all smiles again as he handed the rings back to Gunn and quickly stepped back to his place.

Angel watched his friends exchange the vows that would bind them together for life, and thanked whatever power that was guiding him that they were all there to witness such an event in their busy, action-packed lives.


	7. Lessons

The size and severity of his bruises depended solely on who he is was sparring with.

His father started out gentle, hesitant, unwilling to really attack his son. Connor had pushed for weeks and weeks, until finally, he sucker-punched his dad in the face, sending him flying into the wall. Angel didn't hold back after that, and Connor, black and blue by the end of the sessions, was the better for it.

Uncle Wes taught him precision and detail, how to shoot a crossbow with both eyes shut, how to hit a target with a knife from metres away. Connor came away from sessions with Uncle Wes with few bruises, but a precision and skill with blades that even his father marveled at.

Uncle Gunn taught him hand-to-hand combat, how to fight off an opponent twice his size, ways to defend his loved ones, and how to drop a bad guy with a single punch. Connor came away from these sessions with bruised hands and bleeding knuckles and an intense desire to protect his family.

Aunt Cordy taught him sword fighting, wielding the blade with skill and ease. With Aunt Cordy the fight became a dance, a complicated pattern of footwork and blade control. Connor left these sessions with the occasional bloody cut, but also a healthy respect and admiration for his aunt.

Aunt Fred taught him how to build weapons out of ordinary objects, how to hide in places he never would have contemplated, how to use his surroundings to his advantage. Connor rarely came out of these sessions with bruises, but did take away an uncanny ability to adapt to his surroundings.

The size and severity of the bruises depended solely on who he was sparring with, but thanks to his overprotective family, Connor was never defenseless.


	8. Birthday

Year fifteen rolled around, with it another trove of weapons. Over the years he had received every weapon imaginable. Homemade axes and swords from Uncle Gunn, contraptions he could not even describe from Aunt Fred, small, easily concealed knives from Aunt Cordy, ancient, medieval blades accompanied with volumes of text from Uncle Wes. His father added a crossbow to the pile this year.

Then the package arrived.

Small, innocuous, it contained a single, very sharp, very pointy wooden stake. The attached note simply read _I received my first stake at fifteen. Someone should carry on the tradition_.

Connor examined the hand carved stake, admiring the detail, and wondering why his father suddenly looked so melancholy.


	9. Darla

"What was my mother like?"

The first time his young son asked him the question, Angel lied. He didn't yet want his son knowing of the horror and terror Darla had left in her wake over her many centuries. He didn't want Connor knowing Darla the monster. He first wanted his son to know the woman who staked herself to save him, the vampire who shared his son's soul and loved him for it, the human who was conflicted and soft and accepting of her own fate.

Years later, when Connor asked the question again, Angel told the truth. He told his son of Darla's many years of blood and carnage, of her lust for violence, of her sadistic love of torture. He told his son of the decades of decadence, terror and indulgence, of the body count and the innocent humans turned into monsters. He told his son of the Whirlwind and the exhilarating nature of it. He let his son know that for centuries his parents were the monsters of childhood nightmares.

Connor never regretted asking about his mother, but occasionally, in his secret put-away heart, he feared what monstrous traits had been passed on to him through his mother and father.


	10. Resemblance

They always said he looked like his father. The brow, the stance, the sneer. There were constant jokes about the broodiness being genetic.

They rarely said that he looked like his mother.

He had no photographs of her, but hidden in one of Uncle Wesley's books, he discovered a daguerreotype. She was beautiful, icily beautiful, proud, haughty. He studied her features, the thin, fine nose, the piercing blue eyes, lips which seemed to be laughing at him. He wondered if his father ever saw her in his face.

Connor studied his reflection, trying to see his mother in his own face, adjusting the lighting, the angles, the mirror, desperately trying to find Darla in his features, never telling anyone how badly he wanted to feel connected to her.

One day he flippantly snarked at his father, a response to one of Angel's many lectures, and his father abruptly stopped talking and looked at his son as if he'd never noticed him. Connor shuffled his feet uncomfortably, as Angel opened his mouth and spoke words Connor never thought he'd hear.

"You look so much like your mother."


	11. Audition

Connor felt awkward, uncomfortable, and completely out of place. The bright, harsh stage lights bore down on him, and his feet shuffled against the hard, wood floor of the school stage.

Uncle Wes and Uncle Gunn would have laughed themselves silly if they knew what he was up to. If they knew of the beautiful girl who had danced out in front of Connor one day, her lyrical voice wafting down the hall and into his ears, and the effect she had on him. He had followed her down the hall, watched her disappear into one of the music rooms, and hovered outside the door, listening to her clear, bright voice singing warm up chords.

Uncle Lorn had been thrilled at the idea of his auditioning for the school musical, envisioning a protegee in the making. Connor didn't have the heart to tell him he couldn't care less about Liza Minelli.

They practiced for hours, in the foyer of the Hyperion, which Uncle Lorn insisted was best for the acoustics, and only when everyone had safely gone home. Unfortunately, Connor had inherited his father's singing abilities.

Now he stood on the stage, ready to make a fool of himself, and hoping that it was all worth it. He looked into the audience and found her, his beautiful musical girl. She smiled, a soft, sweet, encourage smile, and suddenly Connor felt like he could sing anything.


	12. Patrolling

The first time Connor tasted beer, he remembered choking from the bitter, dry taste, the cool liquid catching in his throat, as he coughed and spluttered, while Uncle Gunn laughed.

"Don't worry, kid, we'll get you Light next time."

Connor came to love patrolling with Uncle Gunn, the two of them co-ordinating their attacks, stalking vampires down alleys and combining their skills – Connor's natural, Gunn's learned – to lure and trap the creatures of the night, synchronizing their hits and adapting to one another's styles.

Uncle Gunn allowed him to drive the truck on occasion, holding on for dear life as Connor careened round corners and screeched to sudden stops, gleefully climbing into the back to use the homemade contraptions Aunt Fred loaded up for them.

On the rare occasion, Uncle Gunn would sneak him a drink afterwards, and Connor eventually came to associate the cold, frothy taste of beer with the cool uncle who taught him everything he knew about patrolling.


	13. Study Sessions

Whenever exams rolled around, Uncle Wes was on hand.

Connor never regretted asking his uncle for help cramming, but sometimes, amidst the mountains of books and with his uncle pacing the room and insisting on researching questions that would never be on the exams, Connor would wonder if he wasn't better off cramming with Aunt Fred who, at the very least, allowed him to take snack breaks.

Uncle Wes would stand behind his desk, glasses askew and tie crooked, enthusiastically quizzing him over and over, while Connor used his uncle's enthusiasm to overcome his own occasional laziness. They would peruse history books, research the English language and have debates over who would truly win in a fight, Hamlet or Laerets.

While his classmates sweated nervously over their various exams, Connor would calmly review everything in his mind, safe in the knowledge that his over-enthusiastic Uncle had prepared him well.

Connor always preferred physical activity to books and studying, but thanks to his sharp Uncle Wes, he developed a keen love of learning and a thirst for knowledge which he carried through the rest of his days.


End file.
